


Me in Honey

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Claiming, Coming Untouched, Confessions, Frottage, Grace Kink, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sex Toys, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Winged Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s smelled it on Castiel for the past week, felt it in every room of the bunker, the oncoming scent of sex and sweat, roses and spices, clogging his nose until he chokes on it. The cabin outside Hastings is available for as long as he needs, and he heads up the few hours drive to the river, unpacking his things and the extra duffel at the side of the bed. Enough food to last a few days at minimum, extra sheets if need be, and the softest rope he could find. Because it’s not Castiel getting fucked here, no, as much as Dean thought it would be at the beginning.</p><p>Castiel doesn't crave physical pleasure for himself—it’s for his <i>partner.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Me in Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



There’s a place they’ll go to in Nebraska at the drop of a hat—one word, and they’re in the car, no questions asked. Between hunts, when they’re in the area or Sam’s not paying much attention, they’ll head out the door and out west, shacking up in the same room every time. Anywhere else and the deal is off. Dean’ll go back to his room at the bunker and Castiel to his duties in Heaven and on Earth, and they won’t speak a word of it until the next chance arises.

That chance is now. Dean booked the cabin for a few nights, long enough for Castiel to get this out of his system, because he may still be an Angel, but he’s also subjected to whatever freaky biological processes he has. Including ruts—for two to three days twice a year since Jimmy vacated the scene, Castiel is _insatiable_ , taking out whatever hormones are raging inside him on the first willing person. And that person, for the past few years, has been Dean.

Not that he particularly minds. It’s almost laughable how into it he is, how the anticipation builds the longer the months go on, until he can practically _smell_ the change in the air, heat and lust radiating off the Angel in waves, their touches lasting longer, kisses more fervent, needy. It’s more than laying himself down for a friend—he genuinely _cares_ for the guy, and letting himself be fucked for days on end is the least of his worries, especially when Hell could come bursting in through a locked door at a moment’s notice.

He’s smelled it on Castiel for the past week, felt it in every room of the bunker, the oncoming scent of sex and sweat, roses and spices, clogging his nose until he chokes on it. The cabin outside Hastings is available for as long as he needs, and he heads up the few hours drive to the river, unpacking his things and the extra duffel at the side of the bed. Enough food to last a few days at minimum, extra sheets if need be, and the softest rope he could find. Because it’s not Castiel getting fucked here, no, as much as Dean thought it would be at the beginning.

Castiel doesn't crave physical pleasure for himself—it’s for his _partner_.

Dean manages to loop a length of rope around his wrists and the wrought iron headboard, stretching out bare across the bed while he waits. He gave Castiel the word over thirty minutes ago, long enough for him to get from Red Cloud to their little shack on the river, long enough for Dean to sprawl out and lie in wait, anticipation thrumming through his veins, twitching at every individual noise, every creak from the trees outside. Footsteps begin to seep in a short time later, floorboards groaning with new weight, the fabric of a trench coat rustling at the end of the bed. He keeps his eyes closed as Castiel crawls across the sheets, lowering his head to mouth at Dean’s jaw, drawing out the first noise.

“You’re getting better at scenting me,” Castiel purrs, elbows bracketing Dean’s head, lips close to his ear. Dean can feel all of him: the metal of his belt buckle, the summer-warmed fabric of his slacks, each individual button of his dress shirt. The layers come off one by one, Dean content to listen to Castiel slipping out of his clothing and over him, until they’re pressed close and the warmth of feathers and _rut_ bleed into his skin. “Look at me,” Castiel orders, kissing each of his eyelids before shifting lower to nip at his chin, jaw; Dean groans with the attention.

He’s naked when Dean opens his eyes, the immediate darkness blinding him until his eyes adjust, making out Castiel’s body amongst the black-and-blue feathers. Six wings—all of them glow a dulled teal, pulsing with each of Castiel’s breaths, erratic yet composed. His eyes match the shade surrounding them, the black of his pupils overtaking that familiar blue; Dean can see the want in his eyes, the sweat beading at his hairline in arousal, the slight tremor in his fingers, now smoothing up his arms to cup his wrists, tightening the rope that binds them.

 _I’m vulnerable_ , Dean thinks, watching Castiel sit back on his haunches, running the barest hint of nails down his chest, over his nipples, growing erect the longer he toys with them. He’s always vulnerable like this, as much as he hates to admit it—with his own consent, he gives himself over to the Angel on a semi-regular basis, whether it’s in the bedroom or elsewhere. For a few minutes at a time, he gives up his self deprecation, the loathing that flows through him like poison, the ideologies he wishes he didn’t embody and lets Castiel take over, lets the Angel take what he wants and praise him all the while, until he can scarcely remember where they are or who he is.

If he’s willing to admit to himself, maybe he needs it just as much as Castiel.

Dean sighs into their next kiss, Castiel’s hands splayed over his chest and traveling lower, their lips sliding together, Castiel’s tongue teasing his lower lip; Dean leans up to meet him, eyes fluttering closed with every slick press of wet skin, with every tug to his hair that leaves him gasping into Castiel’s mouth, into his every touch. Intoxicating is a word for it, suffocating another—he can’t bring himself to push away, either, not when the Angel starts grinding their hips in a slow roll, Dean’s toes curling in the sheets.

Castiel isn’t gentle about it either, not when he’s like this, drunk on lust and whatever hormones are currently clouding his brain. He bites when Dean’s not paying enough attention, digs his fingers in when they slot together just right, muttering something akin to praise into his ear every few minutes. For a while they roll together, exchanging sweet kisses while the wetness between them grows; no urgency, no rush, just the ever present need to be pressed close together, surrounded by wings and some indeterminable musk that radiates from between each feather, lulling him into a quiet place. A _safe_ place.

“I haven’t kissed you in a week,” Castiel confesses, his voice deeper now, reverberating through Dean’s chest. “Haven’t touched you, either.”

Dean’s hips buck against Castiel’s with the next shove, his dick twitching between them, spilling precum into the wet mess already pooling across his stomach, soaking into the wiry hairs at the base of his cock. “Last time I touched you when you were like this,” Dean breathes, throwing his head back into the pillows, Castiel latching onto his neck, “you fucked me in the gym. _Twice_.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Castiel chides, and Dean can’t even laugh, not when Castiel is licking along his neckline, sinking his teeth into the flesh there, hard enough to bruise. He lets up and laves over the claim, the mark stinging under his tongue. “Much like you’re not now.”

“Knew what was goin’ on, this time,” Dean answers. He turns to bare his neck, Castiel sinking down to mark him again, this time harder, more insistent; Dean’s hips twitch up to meet Castiel’s, their cocks a hard brand against one another, drooling fat trails onto the other. “You were— _fuck_ —startin’ to smell like _flowers_ again—.”

“Is it that noticeable?” Dean rolls his eyes at Castiel’s laughter, the Angel finally sitting up and tucking each of his wings behind his back, the black masses still taking up half the bed, no matter how small he tries to appear. He looks between himself and Castiel, Castiel running his hands through the slick mess on Dean’s stomach and reaching up to touch Dean’s lips with it, moaning when he takes the wet digits into his mouth.

Something possessive flashes across Castiel’s face then, the Angel sucking in a sharp breath when Dean snakes his tongue between his fingers, eyes hooded, full lips sucking them clean and letting them go with a pop. “You gonna fuck me?” Dean asks, fighting back the desire in his voice, the _want_.

Castiel nods, leaning down to kiss him once more before pulling away, hands parting Dean’s legs wide. “In time,” he purrs. “How many times did you come the last time we did this?”

 _Oh God_. Dean relaxes as Castiel trails down his body, mouthing at his stomach and down to his cock, bypassing it entirely. “’Bout… four times,” he guesses. That weekend had been a blur, vague recollections of hands and heat and so many _mouths_ filtering into his memory at random moments, heat curling in his gut just at the thought. Castiel had done _something_ to him, something that left him boneless and sore the following morning—his soul had never felt so _alive_ afterwards.

Castiel makes a noise in contemplation, looking up to catch Dean’s eyes between his legs, a hand splayed over his hip, the other languidly stroking his cock, drawing out even more precum from the tip. “Should we try for five?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods, letting out a breath. They’ve been _experimenting_ with his body for a while, as Castiel puts it, discovering his limits and when and how to cross them, on occasion bringing him to such an insensible mess that he can’t be brought back for minutes at a time, his body a livewire, every muscle twitching with sensitivity. Castiel always tells him he’s beautiful after they’re done, once he resurfaces and they go again. Outside of ruts, they have the sweetest sex imaginable—but when Castiel stares at him like this, when his every touch is scorched with heat and his lips taste of sin, Dean can’t help but give in.

Castiel starts slow despite the shake in his hands, and Dean knows he’s fighting every instinct he has to just pin him down and fuck him raw. It wouldn't be the first time he’s been taken that way; reckless nights in run-down motels, all to scratch an itch he never knew could be filled, not until the Angel walked into his life and, years later, into his bed.

A shiver runs through him when Castiel begins to open him up, finger slick with the oil that’s running down his back and coating his sides, the feathers closest to his body utterly soaked, reeking of musk and something sweet, all of it enveloping Dean’s senses and drowning him. There’s always been something different with using Castiel’s oils instead of lube; the consistency is almost the same from what he can tell, but it’s hotter, knowing that he’s being marked by an Angel from every side, his bruises lingering on the surface in the aftermath for all the world to see.

He flushes deep with the recognition, face bright red and buried in his arm; Castiel chuckles at him, slipping another finger in and crooking them just so, Dean panting, rough. It always starts this way, Castiel getting him riled up just from being _fingered_ , the torture lasting too long and drawing out more orgasms than he’s willing to admit. But no one’s ever taken this much time with him, prep always perfunctory and serving a purpose, just long enough until they can get inside him. This is patient and calming, Castiel taking his time and _exploring_ , wringing Dean’s release from him with little effort.

Maybe it's a testament to how content Dean is that he doesn't come automatically, toes curling in the air as Castiel maneuvers his legs around his waist, fingers slowly working his prostate with no sign of stopping. He lets himself fall into it, reveling in the firmness of his touch, the lazy kisses he presses to his stomach and chest, and gradually he forgets about the ropes around his wrists and the pressure building in his belly, his cock lazily drooling onto his abs and down his flank, Castiel licking it away. “Feels good, like that,” Dean mumbles, rolling his hips and forcing Castiel’s fingers in deeper, moaning with the new sensation.

“Does it?” he hears Castiel murmur, smug about it. Dean earns a harder press for his words, hands clutching his bindings as Castiel speeds up, and he comes like that, white spurting from his cock before the claustrophobia of orgasm sets in, entire body drawing tight while he moans through it. Castiel’s insistent prodding leaves him writhing in the aftershocks, his cock struggling to harden again. He pulls out just briefly, straddling Dean’s hips and leaning down to kiss him, Dean humming into his mouth. “How was that?”

Dean swallows, head lolling to the side. “Good,” he confirms; Castiel kisses him in praise. “Love when you touch me.”

His face burns with the admission; Castiel chooses to ignore it, instead sucking a mark under his ear and stroking his hands down Dean’s chest, coming to rest at his navel. “You love it,” Castiel breathes, dropping to press their foreheads together, Dean still refusing to open his eyes. He can’t look at Castiel in the intervals—it’s too intimate, too personal, like he’s staring into his _soul_. Knowing the Angel, he probably is. “Tell me what else you love.”

 _Sex. Attention. You. You. You._ “Love your cock in me,” he says instead, and rocks up to meet Castiel’s hips, the Angel’s cock still hard and wet, purpling at the head; he’s never wanted anything in his mouth more. “Love it when you’re like this.”

“You like me in rut?” Something swoops through his gut that feels like guilt, Castiel’s laugh wiping it away with just the sound. “We don't indulge in each other like this very often,” Castiel says in reply, hands cradling Dean’s hips, thumbs rubbing small circles there. “I’d prefer if I could have you this willingly all the time, but I enjoy it, knowing you want it as much as I do.” A kiss, and Castiel spreads his wings, the tips scraping the walls of the room, blocking out every source of visible light save for the glow between his feathers. “You understand this, right? What I’m doing?”

Of course—he always does, no matter how many times Castiel asks. The reminder that Castiel wouldn't hurt him though, that this is more than just hormonal relief calms Dean, keeps him sane. They don’t do anything that either of them don’t agree to from the start, and even during the worst of his ruts, when Castiel is willing to do _anything_ to get off, Dean always stops him with a hand to his chest and a look that shuts everything down.

“You love me,” Dean says, his breath shaking around the syllables—because Castiel does, and he knows it. “You won’t hurt me.”

Castiel nods, reaching up to palm his cheek, Dean kissing the pad of his thumb. “I only want what’s best for you. And I want you to _feel_ —,” Castiel ruts against him once, twice, Dean whining from the sudden friction, his cock aching to fill again, “—everything, Dean. I can pleasure you with more than just my body.” He lowers his head, and Dean can barely see his iris anymore; they don’t have much time, not when Castiel gets like this, the calm before the inevitable storm. “…Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” he says before he can take the words back, but Castiel has already taken it as an answer. Dean watches Castiel caress his chest, only half knowing what he’s up to; Castiel has done this only once before, some sort of convergence between Grace and soul, and Dean nearly blacked out afterwards. To this day, it’s still one of the best orgasms he’s had in his _life_ , hands down. Something about the way they felt _together_ , like they were part of one whole, left him feeling safe and actually _happy_ for a few days afterwards, until the inevitability of the world crashed down around them.

He’s missed it, to say the least. Castiel closes his eyes and blue pulses through his feathers, Dean’s mouth falling open when the first tendrils of Grace flow through him, cradling something old and forgotten in his chest. It’s different from the other times when Castiel comforts him with a hand to his shoulder or arms around his neck; then, his Grace only touches Dean on the surface, enough to calm him and clear his head.

Now, it seeps into the very essence of himself, stroking him at his core. Dean told him afterward the last time how it felt, how hundreds of little fingers had touched him where no one else ever could: how they stretched him open and left him aching, how every nerve ending fired at once and left him howling for minutes on end until release swept through him and left him reeling.

And what still shocks him the most is that Castiel gets off on it too, like some sort of incubus feeding off his pleasure, bleeding him of his life through orgasm after orgasm. It’s something about the _connection_ , he figures, an Angel merging with the volatility of a human’s soul, especially one that reciprocates what it’s being given. He can’t open his eyes to see the look Castiel is giving him, the one Dean’s seen countless times but never like this, never when they’re _merging_.

They’re both hard, that much he knows. Castiel ruts fervently against his cock, mouthing at his neck while Dean strains against his bindings, digging his toes into the sheets before thrusting back just as hard, his body convulsing with every press, every stroke of his Grace through his soul. He feels full, his hole slick and stretched around nothing, body being hurtled towards the edge with every touch to his prostate, the invisible hands stroking his cock, pinching his nipples until they harden.

He’s moaning, he’s aware—he can’t stop, not when everything builds to a peak and he’s _held_ there, on the verge of coming but unable to, balls drawn up with no relief in sight. “ _Cas_ ,” Dean whines between grunts, pulling the ropes taut in his urgency, twisting under the onslaught, torn between wanting to escape and giving himself over completely. “ _Cas_ , _please_ —.”

“Calm down,” Castiel pants, his chest rising and falling in quick succession; Dean wants to reach up and touch him, get a fist around his cock and make him come, milk him for all he’s worth. Instead, he’s stuck watching the Angel grind in the slick they’re making on his stomach, a faint white light shining between his eyelids, the glow in his feathers almost blinding. “Come, Dean, _come_ —.”

Dean does, body rigid for a second time when Castiel lets another pulse of his Grace roll through him, cock spilling another thick spurt of cum across his chest, struggling to breathe once his orgasm fades. Slowly, Castiel retracts his Grace and leaves Dean empty once again, achingly alone despite how close they are, Castiel over his waist, his cock _still_ angry and red; Dean physically aches from the sight of it, knowing how close Castiel is to coming, how desperate he is for release, yet still holding back.

“Wanna—,” Dean starts, swallowing, offering his bound wrists in invitation, “—want you to come. Wanna make you come.” He’s already come _twice_ —it’s the least he can do.

Still, Castiel shakes his head and rises off of him, stumbling off the bed and leaving a trail of feathers behind. “What did you bring?”

 _Fuck_ , he should’ve known he’d ask. Dean looks over to the nightstand and watches Castiel’s hands, deft fingers rummaging through the small black bag he left there a while before. Dean wants them on him again, _in_ him, needs to feel their presence, the calm that comes with it. “There’s a… I got a new vibrator,” he admits, motioning towards the contents. He watches Castiel pull a slim black device from inside the bag, running his thumb over the head’s multiple nubs, turning it over in his hand. “It’s… supposed to—.”

“It’s a prostate stimulator.”

Dean’s face flushes; how in the world is Castiel so _nonchalant_ about it? Then again, Castiel was the one to bring up his rut in the first place, years ago before the apocalypse and the Leviathan, when the itch under his skin grew to be too much. Their first kiss—and first _time_ , rather—could have been under more ideal circumstances, but Dean was the only one Castiel wanted, the only one who gave a damn. The only one who still does.

Dean nods after a long minute, Castiel crawling back onto the bed and kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, slicking two of his fingers with oil and sliding them over his hole. “Like it,” he mumbles, lifting up some to allow Castiel to press in deeper, getting them exactly where he wants them. “Like it when—when you—.”

“You like when I finger you open,” Castiel states, and Dean pants out a ‘yes,’ pushing back on his fingers with enthusiasm. His cock protests the new attention, aching between his legs where it’s soft, but Castiel pays it no mind; he never does, not when they’re between sessions and Dean’s still struggling to get his bearings again. There’s only so much the human body can handle, and consecutive orgasms isn’t one of them, especially when an Angel decides that now is the _perfect_ opportunity to test how many times someone can come before blacking out.

His record is four, only because he _did_ faint last time, his final orgasm dry. Later, he’d awoken to Castiel at his back, wings curled around him, and Dean slept until Castiel’s rut resurfaced. Castiel may be adventurous, but he’s far from a sadist, and all Dean has to do is give him the word and they’ll stop. Today, Dean wants to try and see how far he can get before they have to stop and Castiel has to help him back to sanity.

Castiel lies at his side once Dean is comfortable and his heart rate settles, drawing him into a kiss as a distraction. He knows what’s going on, how Castiel will divert his attention with heavy kisses until he’s knuckle—or toy—deep, and he’ll open Dean up for what feels like forever, until he’s whimpering with oversensitivity and begging, for _any_ sort of relief. It always works too, and soon he’s sucking Castiel’s tongue into his mouth as the nubbed head of the vibrator presses against his hole, slick with wing oil and just as teasing as Castiel’s fingers, just rubbing there, a slow roll designed to make him _beg_.

He doesn't have to today; Castiel is too worked up for it, Dean supposes, too determined to finish their game before he finally gets what he wants, before he buries himself balls deep and ties them together, coming for what feels like _forever_. To this day, Dean still doesn't understand Angelic biology or why Castiel has a _knot_ in the first place, but he goes with it—something about it feels dirty, knowing that Castiel is anything but human, and he’s chosen _Dean_ , out of everyone else, to lay claim to.

The slow pulse of the vibrator’s head startles a gasp out of him. Castiel’s eyes, near-black, watch Dean’s face, the way his lips curl around a moan, the way his hands grip the ropes again, his wrists rubbed raw; they’ll have to untie him after this, if Castiel is willing. He doesn't know how much more he can take. It feels like Castiel’s fingers are inside him again, like he’s being fucked open between kisses and pushed towards an unattainable cliff, the Angel guiding the way.

There’s only one way Dean’s still able to get hard, he figures; under any other circumstances, he’d be flat on his back and spent, absolutely willing to let Castiel fuck him without any reciprocation needed. Now, Castiel strokes him back to hardness with his Grace, Dean’s dick leaking profusely in his fist, shiny and slick with precum and wing oil. The sheets are probably ruined from the way they’re laying, Castiel’s wings dripping with oil and sweat, half of it coating Dean from where one of the six sprawls across him, keeping him pinned.

Like he would even _try_ to get away from this.

“You like this?” Castiel asks, mouthing a trail down Dean’s neck to the still stinging bite along his collar, kissing wetly over the indentations. Dean nods, breath hitching, head falling back at Castiel’s harder touch, the vibrator pressed firm against his prostate. He can barely move, let alone _speak_ to answer the next order: “Tell me how much you like it.”

Castiel lets off the pressure— _thank God_ —and Dean lets out a breath, his hips still following the vibrations, hole clenching around the toy. “Love it,” he says, kissing him again and shuddering a breath. “Makes me feel so good, babe, feels so _good_ —.”

“I’m glad,” Castiel hums, nuzzling his throat. “You’ve given me so much, Dean; you’ve taught me everything… This is the least I can do.” It’s heartfelt, and that’s what Dean both loves and hates about it, how honest Castiel is about everything. It warms his heart and tears him apart at the same time; if only he didn't love the Angel so much, maybe then it wouldn't hurt as badly. “Can you come again?”

Dean shakes off the thoughts and looks to Castiel, catching the sweat beading at his brow, how blown his pupils are, practically verging on red; his cock gives a twitch in Castiel’s grip, thumb smoothing over the slit and coaxing out more fluid, adding to the obscene puddle they’ve already created. “Gettin’ harder,” he admits, burying his face in the sheets between them. “Hurts—.”

Castiel shushes him and pulls his hand away, leaving his cock to rest unattended, much to Dean’s anguish. “You’re so close,” he whispers, breath warm against his ear. Dean nearly jumps when Castiel turns up the setting again, tears forming at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over. It’s too much, Dean can’t do this, he can’t—. “You can,” Castiel tells him, a hand over Dean’s heart, thumping rapidly in his chest.

“Can’t,” Dean mutters, simultaneously attempting to pull away and fuck back onto the vibrator, muscles clenching around it tight. “Can’t, ‘s too much—.”

“You’re doing so well,” he hears in his ear. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s already over the point of no return and that he’s coming untouched, but it’s all lost in a haze, a rush of heat and Grace flowing through his veins and hurtling him into near-unconsciousness. He’s loud when he comes, practically screaming through it, mouth dropped open and body bowing, neck bared to Castiel’s mouth, whose teeth sink in again to his previous mark.

And he’s not done—Dean’s still tense when Castiel ups the vibrations to the highest setting, Dean pinching his eyes closed against the tears that are now spilling over. He can’t breathe, chest too tight, every muscle alive; he can’t even get the words out to tell Castiel to _stop_ before he’s coming _again_ , dry against his stomach, cock hot and painful to the touch.

His neck is probably bleeding from how hard Castiel bit him, but he can’t bring himself to care. “ _Stop_ ,” Dean finally croaks, chewing his lower lip between gasps. “Cas, _please_.”

All at once, the vibrations stop and the toy is slowly pulled out and set to the side, Dean’s hole clenching around nothing; it’s all he wants and hates at the same time, that need to be filled even after coming _twice_ in a row, just from having something inside. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks after his heart settles, hands finally unclenching. Slowly, he unties the ropes and lets Dean’s wrists down to his sides, rubbing the feeling back into them, the reddened skin knitting together with each touch. “Dean?”

“’M fine,” Dean eventually manages, shuffling onto his stomach despite the mess he’s already made. He knows the routine now, knows Castiel will take him from behind and fuck him until he passes out or Castiel comes, whichever happens first. Not that he doesn't enjoy it; it’s the highlight of their trysts, having Castiel _finally_ inside him and not some cold plastic or silicone. But today…

Castiel runs a hand up and down his spine, kissing his nape in some sort of recognition. “How was it for…?” Dean starts, opening his eyes, bleary from exhaustion.

“I enjoyed it,” Castiel answers him, kissing the bite and licking away whatever blood has been drawn to the surface. “I’m afraid I may have become… overzealous. Did I hurt you?”

Dean shakes his head. “Loved it,” he says, and Castiel kisses his hair. “Just… didn’t expect you to keep goin’ like that.”

Castiel draws him close in response, wings draping around him and surrounding him in warmth, easing the tension from his locked muscles, hands cupping his hips. At his back, Dean can feel Castiel’s hard cock pressed against him, but there’s no urgency behind it, no heat. “I’m sorry if it startled you,” Castiel mumbles, sounding forlorn; Dean’s heart aches at the thought that he did something wrong, that he wasn't _good_ enough, just because he couldn’t take it. “You did nothing of the sort,” Castiel says, and Dean rolls his eyes; he really needs to stay out of his head. “You’re perfect, Dean, all of you. …I’m afraid I waited too long, though.”

Dean snorts, burrowing further into the wings, a smile on his lips. “You coulda called it off at any time if I was botherin’ you so much,” he chides; Castiel slaps his hip for the retort. “ _Seriously_ , Cas, ‘f you wanna fuck me, y’don’t gotta make a game of it.”

“I like testing your limits,” Castiel purrs into his ear. Dean shivers, Castiel running a hand down his arm, over his ribs, before a finger slips over his rim, pushing in up to the first knuckle. “Can I rim you?”

Dean actually _blushes_ at that, shifting enough to spread his legs, body trembling until Castiel gets his hands on his hips, helping him up to his knees, ass in the air. “C’mon,” he sighs, hugging a pillow under his head and closing his eyes. “Don’t make me come, just… Wanna feel you. Want you to make me feel good…”

Castiel wastes no time diving in, Dean almost yelping from sensitivity as Castiel licks a stripe over his rim, barely easing Dean into it before he feels hands on his cheeks, spreading him apart, thumbs pressing him open. He lays there like that, Castiel alternating between licking and nipping his rim and kissing wet marks across his ass, pausing to suck at his balls— _‘s sensitive, Cas_ —until he’s mewling with every touch. He’s not taking his time with it; any other day, Castiel would _dine_ on him, rim him for hours until he comes untouched or not at all, Dean purely content to take whatever the Angel offers him.

Now, Castiel is still struggling to do the same, but there’s intent behind it. He wants Dean to relax, wants to get him ready before he fucks him, nice and hard and into the mattress. The first of many times that week, for sure. “Doin’ so good,” Dean croons, reaching back to tug at Castiel’s hair, the Angel moaning against his skin, eyes slipping closed. As much as Castiel likes to praise him during sex, Dean likes to give it right back, knowing how riled it gets him, how much harder Castiel fucks him after he’s been told he’s _good_ , or he’s _beautiful_. Some days, it flows both ways; during rut, it’s almost never spoken, never even mentioned.

Until now. “Gettin’ me so hard, babe,” Dean moans, breathless; Castiel sinks a wet finger inside him, panting hot breaths between licks, intentionally avoiding his prostate as he slips another in, simply feeling him out. “Wanna fuck me? Get that thick cock in me? C’mon, know— _shit_ —know how hard you are…”

Castiel pulls off with a huff, squeezing his ass with one hand as he fucks another finger inside, Dean’s hole dripping with oil and clenching around the intrusion—he _wants_ it. Even if he can’t come again, he wants Castiel inside him, wants him to fuck him senseless until all he knows is his name. “I’m tired of waiting,” Castiel finally says, and Dean nearly laughs at it; the fingers to his prostate stop him in his tracks, just enough pressure to keep him alert, let him know what’s coming. “Do you want me to knot you?”

Dean nods, a little wary. “Just… be careful, alright? Not exactly… _designed_ that way, y’know.”

He rolls onto his back and opens his legs, tugging Castiel down for a kiss while the Angel situates himself between his thighs, pressing the head of his cock to Dean’s rim. He’s inside before Dean can even think about it, mouth dropping open in a guttural moan—he forgot how _thick_ Castiel is during ruts, how much _bigger_ he feels compared to his fingers or whatever dildos they use, filling Dean completely, _fully_. It’s better than he ever imagined, especially when Castiel pins his wrists above his head and goes to town.

He’s not gentle about it, purely driven by instinct with the need to claim, to _mate_ him. Castiel had explained it when they first started this years ago, how all Angels go through a mating season and how Castiel never found a mate, not until he rescued Dean from Hell and laid the ultimate claim into his skin. Now twice a year, he’ll attempt to breed Dean despite the fact he can’t catch, not that Dean would want to father Nephilim anyway. They’re on the road too much to even consider kids, let alone half-Angel babies. Still, there’s something intimate about it, knowing Castiel is as physically close to him as he can get, knowing Castiel loves him enough to _try_.

Dean clings to him with each thrust, freed arms wrapped tight around Castiel’s neck and hands buried in his feathers, wings trembling with strain, flapping inconsistently and unsettling dust atop the cabinets and in the drapes. It’s a brief reprieve to how hard Castiel is thrusting into him, the Angel growling low in his ear, almost snarling. “C’mon, Cas,” Dean whines, forehead pressed to Castiel’s neck. He has half the mind to bite him back, sink his teeth into that tanned flesh and taste the sweat there; Castiel would probably let him too, even if Dean didn't ask. “ _God_ , you’re so fucking _hard_ —know you’ve been waitin’, c’mon, come, Angel—.”

“ _Dean_.”

Castiel places a hand over Dean’s heart, and— _oh_. Dean nods in unspoken understanding, clutching Castiel’s wrist as he feels the first strand of Grace seep in, curling around his soul and lighting him up from the inside, even more than Castiel’s next kiss or the Enochian being chanted in his ear, or how gently he caresses him despite the roughness of each thrust and how it would send him up the mattress if Castiel’s wings weren’t keeping him still.

They slow after a short while, both of Castiel’s palms pressed to his pecs while they kiss, Dean tasting the faintest hint of Grace on his tongue as it flows through them both, his soul crying out in delighted rapture. It’s invasive, knowing that Castiel is in him _completely_ , body and soul; he loves it either way, and even says so in the crook of Castiel’s neck, kissing the sweat-soaked skin and licking a small patch, tasting so much on his tongue: longing, affection, desire, _love_. All of it radiates through his soul into Castiel’s Grace, the Angel gasping in recognition.

“You love me,” Castiel says, and Dean nods, not even bothered by the tears that escape now, streaking his face and Castiel’s neck when he holds him tighter, never to let go. “Love you too,” Castiel tells him, sealing it with a kiss. “Love you like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Fuck me,” Dean begs, hiding the shiver in his voice. He can’t even look at Castiel, knowing the weight that’s between them now, pulsing like a living thing in his chest. “Don’t get soft on me now, man… You started this, you fin—.”

Castiel shuts him up with a particularly hard thrust, Dean howling and digging his nails into his wings, the action driving Castiel into a frenzy. _I’m not gonna survive this_ , Dean thinks when Castiel bites him again, and belatedly he begins to feel the first hints of his knot tugging at his rim, dragging with every thrust until Dean’s fighting to clench around it, to keep it _in_ , despite his body’s protest. Dean’s not an Angel; he’s not supposed to want it like this, he’s not supposed to _crave_ it, but he _does_. “Oh _fuck_ , _Cas_ , do it, fuckin’—.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything to Dean, just tilts his hips higher and _goes_ for it, Dean clawing at his shoulders, nails digging in harder with each thrust, each catch until it's _in_ , and Dean’s moaning at the shape of it, from the feel of Castiel _coming_ , again and _again_ , his wings at full width, feathers scraping the walls and roof. Their bond doesn't sever through it, Grace tugging incessantly at Dean’s soul until he joins the Angel, his cock giving a weak dribble as he shivers through it until they’re both spent and Castiel is locked inside him, Grace finally pulling free.

Dean pants into his shoulder, closing his eyes while Castiel sucks the blood away from his wound, laving it with wet kisses until the pain is a faint memory. “We gotta do that again,” is the first thing that escapes Dean’s mouth, and he doesn’t even try to backtrack.

Castiel snorts, leaning up to kiss Dean’s lips, smiling against his cheek. “Maybe later,” he yawns, helping to roll Dean onto his side, cocooning them in his wings once again. Dean holds him close, resting their foreheads together. “We’re here for a while, anyway.”

“Don’t think it’s so bad,” Dean muses, smirking. “Kinda like it like this. ‘Specially with the wings.”

“Your fascination with them will never cease to amaze me.” Castiel touches the bite mark over his neck, kissing it again, an apology. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“Nah.” With closed eyes, Dean listens to Castiel’s steadying breathing and struggles to ignore the sweat cooling on his skin, the wing oil soaking the sheets underneath them; he’ll need to change them later, when Castiel finally slips free and they can clean up before the next round. “Kinda like it. …The last one faded.” He shouldn't feel sentimental about a _bite_ , but it was a claim— _Castiel’s_ claim.

“I like marking you,” Castiel confides. “…Probably too much.”

Humming, Dean pulls him even closer, hooking their ankles together. “You can mark me any time, Cas,” he says, soft in the silence of the room.

Castiel nods, and sighs. “I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...I may have done something insane. So xylodemon wanted something along the lines of lots of fingering, wing kink, overstimulation, praise, and frotting, so hopefully I incorperated all of those in! Thanks to viscouslover and shiphitsthefan for betaing this, thanks for ironing out my constant pronoun issue! Also, this is my first foray into ABO, so I have no idea what I'm doing here. But for some reason, I like one-sided ABO. 
> 
> Two more things left on my prompt list! Be excited!
> 
> Also, the vibrator Dean uses is [this one](http://www.forttroff.com/product/71339.html). Honestly, I've spent too much time on this website. What a fun name for a product, though.
> 
> Title is from the R.E.M. song. Like you expected anything different. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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